There are several members of the New York police force who think they know their Chinatown; there are several slum workers who think they do; there are many ugly guides, real guides, who think they do, but Beefy Saul, ex-newspaper man, ex-United States Chinese immigration inspector, and finally of the Secret Service, really does. This is because Beefy Saul knows not only the bad, but the good Chinamen; because he knows not only the ins and outs of Chinatown, but the ins and outs of New York; because he knows not only the wiles and weaknesses of Chinamen, the wiles and weaknesses of ugly souled guides (and of slum workers), but best of all, because he knows the several members of the New York police department who think they know their Chinatown. But like men who know less, Beefy Saul enjoys his sleep and naturally objects to being roused at three o\'clock in the morning, even though in the east the silver is showing through the black, as Donaldson pointed out, like the eyes of a certain lady when she smiles (as Donaldson did not point out). Beefy came down in answer to the insistent bell which connected with his modest flat—it ought to be called a suite, for the lower hall boasted only six speaking tubes—and he swore like a pirate as he came. Finally the broad shoulders, which gave him his name, filled the door frame.
"I don\'t give a tinker\'s dam who you are," he growled before he had made out the features before him, "it\'s a blasted outrage! Hello, Don, what in thunder brings you out at this time of night? You look white, man, what\'s the trouble?"
Saul hitched up his trousers, his round sleepy face that of a good-natured farmer.
"I want you to do me a favor if you will, Beefy. I know it \'s a darned shame to get you out at this hour."
"Tut, tut, man. If a friend can\'t get up for another friend, he ain\'t much of a friend. Tell your troubles."
"I \'m looking for a man, Beefy, who \'s down there somewhere among your Chinks."
"Hitting the pipe?"
"I \'m afraid so."
"Have n\'t any address I suppose—don\'t know his favorite joint?"
"I don\'t know a thing about him except that he has been down there before—that he lit out again a little over an hour ago, half mad—and that I must find him."
"An hour ago, eh? That helps, some. There \'s only a few of \'em open to the public at that time. But say, is there any special hurry? He\'s had time to get his dope by now. I \'ve got some work there in the morning."
"There\'s a girl waiting for him, Beefy, a girl who is paying big for every hour he\'s gone."
"So? Well, m\' boy, guess we \'ll have to get him then. I \'ll be down in ten minutes. Make yourself at home on the doorstep."
Donaldson waited in the taxicab. For the first time in his life he computed the value of one-sixth of an hour. So long as he had been with the girl—or so long as he had been active in her behalf—the minutes were filled with sufficient interest to make them pass unreckoned. But to sit here and wait, to sit here and watch the seconds wasted, to sit here and be conscious of each one of them as it bit, like a thieving wharf rat, into his dwindling Present and carried the morsel of time back to the greedy Past, was a different matter. When finally Saul appeared with a fat cigar in one corner of his chubby mouth, Donaldson was halfway across the sidewalk to meet him.
"Good Lord!" he laughed excitedly, almost pushing the big man toward the cab, "I thought you were lost up there."
Saul paused with one foot already on the step. Then turning back, he struck a match for his cigar. The flare revealed Donaldson\'s eager eyes, his tense mouth. He carelessly snapped the burnt match to the lapel of Donaldson\'s coat and stooping to pick it off took occasion to whiff the latter\'s breath.
"The sooner we start—" suggested Donaldson, impatiently.
Saul stepped in, his two hundred pounds making the springs squeak, and sinking into a corner waited to see what he might learn from Donaldson\'s talk. The suspicion had crossed his mind that possibly the latter had got into some such way himself—it was over a year since he had seen him—and was taking this method to hunt up an all-night opium joint. His experience made him constantly suspicious, but unlike the regular police, a suspicion with him remained a suspicion until proven. It never gained strength merely by being in his thought. At the end of five minutes he had discarded this theory. Stopping the machine, he gave the cabby a real address in the place of the fictitious one he had first given in Donaldson\'s hearing. The latter\'s mind, supernormally alert, detected the ruse instantly. He placed a hand upon Saul\'s knee.
"Beefy, you didn\'t suspect me, did you?"
"What the devil is the matter with you then?" demanded Saul.
"Nothing. What makes you think there is?"
"The mouth, man, the mouth! You don\'t get those wrinkles in the corner and a tight chin by being left alone five minutes, if all that is troubling you is a lost friend."
"You \'re too confounded suspicious. It\'s only that I \'ve so many things to do, Beefy."
"Business picked up?"
Donaldson smiled. Saul had known his Grub Street life. As the cab sped on he regained his self-control. Action, movement was all he needed. For the next ten minutes he surprised Saul with his enthusiasm and loquacity. The latter having known him as a quiet and rather reserved fellow, finally decided that it was a clear case of woman. The questions he asked about young Arsdale, in securing a minute description of the man, confirmed this impression.
The cab turned into the narrow cobbled streets of Chinatown, past the dark windows, Chinese stores and restaurants, a region that, deserted now, appeared in the early morning quiet ominous rather than peaceful. Dark alleys opened out frequently—alleys which coiled like snakes past cellar entrances, noisome rears of tottering tenements, to grease-fingered doors as impassive as the stolid faces of guards who drowsed behind them asleep to all save those who knew the deadly pass-word. Paradoxical doors which shut in, instead of out, danger! But Saul knew them and they knew Saul. He knew further the haunts of beginners, where opium is high and the surroundings are fairly clean, he knew the haunts of the confirmed, where opium is cheaper and where surroundings do not matter at all. Also he knew Wun Chung, who does not smoke, but who, being rich, controls the trade and so keeps in touch with all who buy.
On the way to Chung\'s Saul made one stop. With Donaldson at his heels, he darted down a side street, pushed open, without knocking, a dingy door, went up a flight of stairs, along a dark hallway and down another flight, where he was stopped by a shadow. The big man spoke his name, and the shadow turned instantly from a guard to an obsequious servant. He opened the door and Saul strode acr............